


The Mungo Club

by orphan_account



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Importance of Being Earnest AU, M/M, plot missing presumed dead, this is a shameless excuse to write Victorian spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 13:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15535290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Harry Hart - Galahad to his closest companions - after thirty years as a spy, finds out just how remiss he's been in discovering the secrets of one of his closest friend, and determines to rectify the issue as soon as possible. What does Merlin's cigarette case mean? Since when has he had a nephew? And who on Earth goes about with a name like Eggsy?An unapologetically silly AU based on The Importance of Being Earnest, with all requisite apologies to Oscar Wilde.





	The Mungo Club

The Mungo Club on St James’ Street was an unobtrusive looking place. The doorman outside was appropriately hatted and tailed, of course, in keeping with the status of the club itself, but the exterior of the building was falling into some disrepair. Amongst the well to-do in London it was a source of great consternation given that the membership policy remained so exclusive that barely anybody could get in, no matter how high their breeding or solid their connections. As a result, members of the Mungo Club inevitably found themselves invited to every reputable dinner going. Every mother in possession of a flock of debutantes wanted them introduced to one of these mysterious gentlemen in the hope of making a good connection, or at the very least of discovering some of the secrets of that shabby old building that seemed to maintain such a sway over London’s elite. 

“Of course, it’s all a nonsense,” James Spencer – known to his fellow members as Lancelot - remarked to a rather pale young man as he led him past the ever-vigilant doorman, giving him a little nod and a tip of his hat. “I imagine that they’d be keenly disappointed if they ever found out just how boring we all are, really. Just a lot of old tailors sitting around drinking sherry.” 

The young man gave a non-committal hum and James grinned at him, clapping him on the back. 

“That’s the spirit, Geraint. Come and meet the rest of the Mungos.” 

In tailoring parlance, _mungo_ is a material made from tightly-woven offcuts, normally the cast-offs of the tailoring process. The Kingsman had adopted the term for its retirees, at first, intending the Mungo Club to be a refuge for those gentlemen no longer spry enough to keep up with the younger members of their little organisation. In time, the younger gentlemen had made the point that they’d rather like somewhere to relax in the city without bothering with trying to scrounge a membership at Boodle’s or Crockford’s. 

All of which was to say that the Mungo Club housed an eccentric collection of retired espionage agents and their younger replacements who, despite their advanced and important roles in the safe-keeping of global peace and harmony, proceeded to get heroically drunk most evenings. In that respect, it was no different from any other club in London.

Once inside it became readily apparent that the state of the outside was a façade in itself, as the interior was fastidiously maintained, all oak panelling and red carpets and magnificent chandeliers “on loan from the Swedish royal family, so the story goes, though I hope they don’t ever expect to see them again”, James explained loftily, leading young Geraint to the smoking room. “Now, let me see. You know your predecessor, of course.” He waved towards a man in an armchair, barely visible past the fog of cigar smoke, and Geraint lifted a hand in greeting. “And over there is Bedivere minimus talking to Ector maximus.” 

The Kingsmen had taken on the naming traditions of Eton and Harrow in order to minimise confusion given that, as Gawain the eldest pointed out, he’d spent forty years referring to his best friend as Kay and he wasn’t about to start calling him Julian now. As such, the retired owners of the Knightly monikers were referred to as maximus, with their successors becoming minimus as the younger - and thus subordinate - owners of the names. As a system it worked very well but for the case of Gaheris. Poor old Gaheris minimus had retired to find that his predecessor had every intention of outliving them all, and in the case of having three Kingsmen with the same name he was forced to linger as Gaheris medius until such case as his predecessor finally died. There was a discreet little bet running between several of the other members as to when that would actually occur, or whether Gaheris maximus – ninety-eight and still going strong – would actually outlive his junior, much to Gaheris medius’ disgust. 

“Well, that’s the smoking room. Through that door is the dining room, I’m sure you’ll find the chefs to your liking. They’re our best asset, you know. Rooms are upstairs, as per, and there’s a billiards room through _that_ door. There’s a lovely ballroom though it’s not been used in its official capacity since the late seventeen hundreds. Arthur’s office is there, Merlin’s next door, and this is the bar.” James threw open the double doors to a large room with a crackling fireplace and a crowd of suited men all talking eagerly in small groups over everything from snifters of brandy to – in the case of Bors (currently the sole owner of the name), Lamorak maximus and Ector maximus, a Nebuchadnezzar of malbec they seemed determined to finish between them, and damn the consequences. 

Geraint looked a little shell-shocked, quite understandably, and James patted him on the shoulder again. 

“It’ll all be second nature soon enough, I assure you. Don’t look so peaked, you earned your place here as much as any of them. Now come along, let’s find you somebody to talk to. Ah!” He hurried towards a booth at the side of the room where three men were in the middle of what seemed a rather intense conversation. 

“This is our illustrious Merlin, of course,” James announced proudly, gesturing to a bald man who looked up, clearly relieved at a distraction from whatever they’d been discussing. 

“You’re the new boy, aren’t you?” 

“That’s right, sir. Geraint. Um, minimus, I suppose.” 

“Pleased to meet you. Your first lesson really ought to be avoiding this one at all costs.” Merlin nodded towards the man next to him who huffed out an exasperated breath, taking as indignant a sip of port as he could manage. 

“Oh, what rot. Harry Hart, privileged to bear the title of Galahad, welcome to the club. This is Percival.” 

Percival stood to shake Geraint’s hand and then stepped back, obligingly making room for them both in the booth. Before Merlin could open his mouth Galahad dived right back into their previous conversation, picking up a small, silver object from the table and shaking it indignantly. 

“Now, as I was saying, if you’ve been hiding an attractive young thing from me all this time-“

“For God’s sake. You’re not going to be invited to my house and that’s the end of it.” 

“That seems uncharacteristically optimistic of you,” Percival remarked dryly, and James laughed. 

“Oh, come on, give that over here.” He reached out to take the silver object from Galahad, examining it. “Well, it’s only a cigarette case. What’s got you so excited?” 

“Read the inscription, you ninny. Honestly, Lancelot, call yourself a spy,” Galahad huffed. 

“To my affectionate uncle, with love, Eggsy.” 

“Now _what_ , I ask you, do you make of that?” 

Lancelot handed the cigarette case back to Merlin who immediately put it back in his pocket, glaring at Galahad. 

“I say, Merlin, I didn’t know you had a... nephew? Niece? Niblet? I mean to say, you’re an only child, aren’t you?” 

“I am.” Merlin gave a long-suffering sigh, rubbing his temple wearily. “I don’t suppose you might just drop the matter and keep your nose out of my business, Galahad?” 

“Certainly not. What sort of a name is _Eggsy_ anyway?” 

The entire table scoffed in unison, bar Geraint, who looked about with understandable confusion. James put a companionable arm around him, chuckling and shaking his head. 

“ _Galahad_ , my dear boy, is in no position to be criticising anybody on their Christian names given that his parents laboured him with the unenviable title of Hardecanute.” 

“I’ll have you know it’s a name held by kings,” Harry sniffed, and Merlin rolled his eyes. 

“One king.” 

“And at least it can be shortened to a recognisable name, unlike Eggsy.” 

“It’s a nickname.” 

“For what? Egbert? Eglantine? Eginhard?” 

Merlin gave Galahad a flat look that promised only bad things in his future and finished his port, putting the crystal glass back on the table with a defiant little _thunk_. 

“I can’t see that it’s any of your business. You’re never going to meet him, so it hardly matters.” 

Percival exchanged a look with James. Galahad was notoriously feline in his sensibilities, endeavouring to do nothing for as long as was humanly possible, right up to the point where somebody forbade him to do something. At which point he would make it his mission in life to do exactly that for as long as it remained forbidden. Merlin must have been agitated to make such an error, because the only thing that one could guarantee by telling Galahad that he’d never meet somebody, was that he’d do his utmost to meet them as soon – and, knowing him, as _comprehensively_ – as was within his power. 

“Shall we,” suggested Percival, in a clear attempt to keep the peace so Merlin didn’t feel compelled to use Galahad as the next guinea pig for whatever new piece of technology he was cooking up in his mysterious lab, “change the subject?” 

“Oh, very well.” Galahad slumped back in his chair with a petulant huff. “I’d have been glad of an escape to the country. My aunt is visiting tomorrow.” 

“Ah. Would this be the terrifying gorgon?” Merlin inquired, and James tutted loudly. 

“I say, if anybody’s going to speak about my mother in such terms, it’s going to be _me_ , thank you so very much.” 

“Oh. Are you two related?” Geraint asked, looking between Galahad and James. They didn’t look especially similar, though not different enough that their being cousins was entirely out of the question. 

“Quite. Cousins. And it’s not all bad news, you know, Harry. She’s bringing your niece with her.” 

Merlin glanced up from where he’d been tugging at a loose thread on the tablecloth, quietly interested, but apparently not quite subtly enough not to catch Galahad’s attention. He all but purred with satisfaction, stretching his legs out under the table and grinning widely. 

“Oh, is she? Why, I seem to recall that you got along rather well with her when last you met, didn’t you, Merlin?” 

“Is it so unbelievable to think that I might be capable of conversing with a young lady without making an ass of myself?” 

“Yes,” Percival and James replied in unison, smirking at one another. 

“Don’t take it to heart. She is exceptional,” James added, Percival nodding his agreement. 

“That she is.” 

“She being the Honourable Miss Roxanne Morton, James’ daughter and my niece,” Harry explained to Geraint. “She’s as headstrong a young lady as one might wish to find, and about as fearsome as her grandmother, though infinitely more fair of face, I’m pleased to say. Well, I’ll tell you what, Merlin-” he levelled a finger at his drinking companion, “if you can engineer me an invitation to your charming country house, I might be able to engineer you an invitation to tea tomorrow so I can distract my aunt, and you might exchange a few pleasantries with Miss Morton.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, and Percival chuckled. 

“I say, Galahad, it looks rather like Merlin’s not in need of your favours.” 

“Is that so?” James drew himself up to his full height as well as he could whilst still sitting down. “Merlin, have you been engaging in communication with my daughter?” 

“We’ve exchanged a few letters.” 

“Which ones?” 

“Galahad, do bugger off. It’s none of your business.” 

“I beg your pardon, but I rather feel the safety of my niece is _very much_ my business. I can’t have her being seduced by a man of your low standing. A Scot, no less.”

“In all fairness, Galahad, if I know my Roxanne, if she’s being seduced it’s only because she’s allowed it,” James said, all but glowing with pride. Harry conceded that with a nod, pulling his own cigarette case from his pocket and taking one out, lighting it. 

“All the more reason that you ought to come to tea. Though I’m afraid my aunt will heartily disapprove of you. I think she’s always hoped her granddaughter might marry somebody with hair.” 

Merlin gave a long-suffering sigh, reaching across the table to steal Harry’s cigarette and take a drag for himself. “You’re insufferable, and I don’t know why I put up with you.” 

Another look between James and Percival that Geraint followed with interest. There were clearly depths to these associations that he couldn’t yet decipher, though he was sure he’d establish their exact nature in time. He stood, coughing politely. 

“I think I ought to try and meet some of the others. It wouldn’t do to be a stranger.” 

“Quite right too,” James agreed, standing as well and shaking Geraint’s head. “I’ll see you about, I’m sure. Good luck.” 

Geraint departed and the remaining Knights watched him go, Harry humming around the cigarette he’d managed to steal back from Merlin. 

“Bit green. But he seems pleasant enough, if a bit unprepossessing.” 

“You do know that a quiet, decorous style of deportment is far preferable in a spy to your habit of making yourself the centre of attention, don’t you?” Percival sighed.  
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I can hardly help it if I’m fascinating, can I?” 

“It’s certainly outside of your control.” Merlin stood too, brushing himself down. “I’m off. Must get back to the lab, I’m afraid, and see that it’s not been destroyed in my absence. Shall I see you for tea tomorrow?” 

“I suppose you shall,” Harry relented. “Half three, if you would, and do try not to be too sickeningly romantic in front of my aunt or she’ll have you dragged from the house by your ankles.” 

“I’m sure you’ll survive the scandal.” 

“I will. Will you?” Harry grinned at Merlin, kicking his feet up onto the empty chair as the Scot departed and then giving James a meaningful look. “I say. A nephew, eh?” 

“How are you going to engineer a meeting?” 

“I’ll think of something. Perhaps Merlin’s small corner of the globe will be hideously threatened by an as yet unknown threat and Arthur will be forced to send in the cavalry.” 

“That’ll be a good trick if you can pull it off.” 

“Percy, I’ve long held it as my maxim that given enough time and resources I can pull _anything_ off.” Harry raised his eyebrows, maintaining a straight face, and Percival met it with a flat stare. 

“You’re a debauched creature, Hart, you know that, don’t you?” 

“I wear it as a badge of pride. Drink?” 

“Certainly.” 

Within the confines of the Mungo Club all manner of fantasies were allowed to come to fruition. Floating cars, improbable weapons, secret spies and, now, secret families. James hoped that Harry knew better than to bring such secrets into the open without caution, dreadful show-off that he was, but to urge him to do so would only make things worse. Besides, under the table he was already exchanging notes with Percival determining the terms of their own bet. The game was afoot, that much was certain, though neither the players nor the goals nor the stakes had yet been firmly established. All the better to bet on. James made a mental note to pick up some cucumber sandwiches before he came to tea; one couldn’t watch a scandal in the making without adequate refreshment.

**Author's Note:**

> I've no excuse for this and yet here it is. Find me on tumblr at ajcrawly!


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